Let me recount them to you in excruciating detail.
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Let me recount them to you in excruciating detail.
I have made a mess of myself so habitually that even despite the crushing emotional damage that ravaged my soul that, quite frankly, there’s a not inconsiderable section of my consciousness that recognises this as supremely normal. With precise regularity it mutters, ‘ah yes, this tracks completely. Deploy the ice-cream’. Which is a statement I will echo, out loud. This tracks completely. Deploy the ice-cream.
Excuse me. Please, do not be alarmed by the streaking mess that is my tears ruining my elaborately applied make-up. It’s normal. Perfectly according to plan.
Yes. Just don’t look at me, please. I’m quite serious, my make-up is important business.
I’m a mare of immense self-reliance, and therefore always keep a fully stocked freezer packed with ice-cream for all occasions, because this is what I do. I am a me and this is how, as a me, I deal with my inability to form any kind of ‘us’. Trust me. I have this under control.
No, I’m not choking. This is normal. My eyes are just leaking and there is a small blockage in my throat. Just a minor case of phlegm. Unattractive but harmless.
I’m fine.
Let’s talk about ice-cream. Please. My favourite is cherry flavoured. I liked how it tasted like a sort of swirl, even though my understanding of the mechanics of taste buds indicates that taste do not, in fact, swirl. But it feels like it does, and I was an artiste. I’m all about feelings and self-destructive tendencies in the name of arte, with an E.
Again, and forgive me for belabouring this point, I apologise that you have to be here for this, but this is my routine. If you insist on being here for this, please just sit down and please don’t hold this against me. I’m about to swear.
Fuck me, Celestia fucking damnit. I am such a fucking idiot, fuck.
It’s habitual that I interrupt these tirades with a mouthful of cherry-flavoured ice-cream. Do stand by, darling.
Oh fuck.
I realised I have forgotten to include my aperitif with the dessert. Yet another mistake for the landfill that is my romantic existence. What a dumpster fire.
Excuse me. I need a bigger bowl for the ice-cream. Actually, let’s do away with the bowl.
It is complex indeed to swear whilst eating ice-cream, so I suppose the more I shovel into my stupid face the less I’ll do it. Profanity is decidedly unladylike, and moreover ice-cream dribbling down one’s chin is not attractive. A lesson learned many years ago. Several times, soo. My heart has been, after all, habitually broken.
Oh, the experiences I have had. Let me recount them to you in excruciating detail. Suffering demands company, and you seem to be set on joining me along this miserable meltdown.
Let me begin with the very first love of my life.
When I was a young mare just having gotten my cutie-mark, my first romantic escapade was with a young mare I’m sure you’re familiar with. She’s a national heroine these days. Applejack. We were young, adventurous, exploring an attraction we felt towards other mares and thoroughly, completely, utterly unsuited towards one another.
We wanted different things. We wanted different types of ponies. I wanted, at the time, somepony to fawn over me and spend time with me. Applejack wanted somepony who knew how to tie a knot. That’s not a metaphor either. She explicitly listed it as a requirement for a long-term relationship. She said it indicated reliability.
I’m not sure that, at the time, we could have found a less suitable partner for the other. As Rainbow would say, oopsie fucking whoopsie. It was hot though.
The break-up was nuclear and we didn’t talk for about two years afterwards. Imagine my horror when we accidentally became element bearers. If the cosmos doesn’t have a sense of humour then it certainly has a penchant for malice.
Applejack got over it. I didn’t. In fact she got over it so well she ended up marrying another friend of mine. Oh, don’t mind me. I’ll get to Rainbow Dash soon. I’m not bitter. And that’s called foreshadowing, darling. My eyes may be leaking but not even a broken heart will quell my storytelling talents. Anyway.
It’s not like I regret letting Applejack and her amazing shoulders get away from me because she was the best thing to ever happen to me.
…
Moving on from Applejack.
You know, I experimented with what I thought I, Rarity, needed. I had, after all, had an explosive and self-destructive foray into mare-only relationships and whilst Applejack might not have much interest in the rougher sex I certainly did. I thought that maybe that was the solution for me. A handsome stallion; fashionable and elegant. Somepony to match the up-and-coming fashionista Rarity.
A perfect match, the kind of delightful, romantic fantasy that honestly would have only enthralled a young filly about half my age at the time reading some silly romance novel.
That dip into the realm of fairy-tale romance ended with a face full of cake and a ruined dress. Lesson learned. I liked that dress.
I elevated my standards beyond princes and superficiality to actual class. Fancy Pants! The most desirable stallion in Canterlot. Charming and witty. Not to mention, well connected within the realm of fashion and the elites of unicorn society. I was convinced that maybe he was the one for me.
Gay, of course. He thought I knew. He also thought I was a stallion. Don’t ask me how but goodness it was awkward. Possibly one of the worst conversations I’ve ever had in my entire life, barring that one time with Applejack, that other time with Rainbow Dash, and I suppose this one as well which really has been a blow to my self-esteem in general.
It was then that I found myself crushing, hard, on Rainbow Dash. I mean, realistically, could you blame me? She saved my life back when I was too busy making a foal of myself with those silly butterfly wings.
And come on. Let’s be honest with ourselves. She may act the tomcolt but she takes care of herself. The way she carefully engineers that mane to look unkempt in a strangely attractive and windswept way? The diligence she displays when tending to those feathers? Those stomach muscles? What mare could resist that was even moderately bent? I certainly couldn’t.
For months I fawned over her. Got her to wear an outrageous wig, once. I took her measurements. They were all exemplary. The wingspan. The narrowness of that waistline, without being starved of calories. I could ramble for days about the various ways in which Rainbow Dash displays subtle beauty and an odd subversive feminine grace but. I was enthralled. But it wasn’t just her appearance, darling.
I figured, the mare who saved my life would have been the one for me. She saved my life, so I could give her mine. I prepared a delightful speech for her. A confession of sorts. I spun my magic for weeks, no, months trying to craft the perfect way to demonstrate my love for her.
How silly it seems now.
Oh, the ice-cream I needed when, upon finally managing to corner her on a little date at the Sugarcube Corner, she revealled that she had been dating Applejack secretly for only a week at the time. I nearly choked on my cake. It was delicious cake, too! Black Everfree Chocolate. A thorough waste. Of cake, and half a year’s worth of waiting for Rainbow to notice me as more than just that friend who does fashion.
Oh, and she made it worse for me. All unintentionally. At no stage had she even come close to picking up my hints and feelings. Not only that but she had the nerve to ask me for tips on how to date Applejack. The sheer fucking temerity.
Yes, yes, I am aware she didn’t know about my feelings for her at the time. But still.
I don’t want to spoiler anything, but let’s just say Applejack has a habit of stealing things I want. Well. Stealing is a strong word. I obviously respect Applejack to a degree that cannot be described adequately within the boundaries of Equestrian vocabulary but fuck me could she just stop being so fucking attractive? Seriously. Leave some for the rest of us.
You were there for Trenderhoof, right? Anyway. Refer to my previous statements. I won’t delve too deep into that rabbit-hole of nonsense. But by Celestia’s fifth-century yoke, fuck Applejack and her bizarrely sexy ways. What is it with those hips? Those shoulders. How are shoulders appealing? They don’t even do anything on the romantic front. They just sort of serve as an attachment for forelegs, which definitely do do things, but the way shoulders work… oh my. I’m getting sweaty thinking about it. I know Rainbow does. She told me. In explicit detail.
You mean you’ve never stared at Applejack’s shoulders? You’re in for an experience, believe me. It’s like watching tectonic plates move mountains, but much faster and also you don’t have to be into geology to enjoy it.
What do you mean, how do I feel about Spike? He’s delightful. I guess. Anyway. I was talking about my romantic problems, and you were listening. Please don’t interrupt, I’m in the middle of a deluge of personal grievances here.
I took some time to calm down. I stepped back. Focussed on my work. I was professional. For about five minutes.
It was in that context that, maybe I became a little too attached to Fluttershy. She did… I mean, she modelled for me. She is a mare with a particularly unique figure. I… well, I can’t help myself for being an appreciator of art, can I, darling? I mean, I described Rainbow Dash’s unconventional attractiveness, but do I really need to go over Fluttershy?
Anyway. She’s straight. Funny how the chips fall. Or is it fries? I’ll be honest with you darling I never did understand that saying. My point is, what a reversal from Fancy Pants. I sure can pick ‘em, as Applejack would probably say whilst banging Rainbow Dash. Which, I should note, Rainbow Dash also described.
I’m not bitter! I’m just livid.
Anyway. I’m… I’m not expecting you to understand why, after all this, after this endless habit of falling for mares and stallions that I can’t have, I managed to engineer my way into falling for Pinkie Pie. It took effort, I’ll admit. A great deal of planning and mental gymnastics. I don’t even get along with Pinkie that well, frankly. I think she’s high-maintenance. And yes I know that’s rich coming from me.
There was just… something infectious about that enthusiasm. About the way she moved and talks several tempos too fast. About the way she puts several spoonfuls worth of too much sugar into everything, including how she behaved with other ponies. Yes, it irritated me. Yes, I wished she’d just calm down. Be quiet, for the Sun’s sake. But whenever we were together, as friends, as friends with benefits, whatever it was we had, well, it was like having love injected directly into my veins.
It’s over now, of course. Excuse me, I need more ice-cream.
Of course I’m happy she’s married to Cheese now. I’m just… I don’t know what I want. Anything, I suppose. I thought that maybe, she was the one. That the sort of energy she had would undo my curse.
Oh, you look at me like I’m insane. I’m a unicorn. We’re all about magic. You know this. Why wouldn’t it make sense that I have some kind of anti-relationship curse on me? A sort of no-sex-field?
It feels that way.
Let me put it to you straight. I have this magic trick I can pull off whenever I come close to being in a relationship. Any ‘us’ I have, I can make disappear. Poof. As if it never existed. Applejack and me? Gone. The possibility of a stable relationship with a stallion? Either I get caked or they’re gay. Either way it doesn’t work out.
Rarity is a lone wolf! A lonely soul, a whisper on the wind. A solitary note in a song of duplets. A… I’m a ‘me’. I’m just me.
Rarity stands alone. Forever, quite possibly.
Pass me the wine, will you, Twilight?
Thank you.
Oh, you’ll probably want some too, I assume?
Naturally. Hang on, let me get you a glass.
Anyway, where was I? Yes. It’s like an actual curse. You’d think out of all of my closest friends and several other ponies with like-minded interests, I’d have found at least one that was willing to maybe do more than enjoy a little slap and tickle between friends?
No.
I’ve never had a real relationship since Applejack. And yes. I’m aware she’s probably going to be proposing to Rainbow soon. Rainbow told me. Don’t ask me how she knew. She did. I’m as confused as you, trust me. And I’m happy for them. I really am. Her and Rainbow are made for each other. Beyond any and all doubt, no matter what I might say drunk. They’re made for each other more than I belonged with either of them.
I just wish somepony was happy for me. That’s all. For me to be with anypony.
I mean, after all this, I don’t think there’s anypony left for me to fall for. Except you, I suppose.
I… Oh, I’m being silly again.
I just can’t imagine being with somepony and it not exploding in my face. Or it being engineered from the start to make me feel miserable. I just… get the ice-cream ready and prepare for another salvo of heartbreak. It’s a routine. It’s just a thing Rarity does, I suppose, ha ha. Whatever curse I have, I don’t see it being broken any time soon.
What do you mean, ‘you know a thing or two about magic’? Don’t be cheeky with me. I’m in the middle of bearing my broken, battered soul to you and…
Excuse me, is this a clever ploy to get me to stop rambling? I’ll have you know I’m not so easily… um…
Mmmf…
…All right, well, that definitely… well you’ve made your point.
But honestly, surely you could pick… anypony. You’re a princess; there’s not a pony in Equestria that wouldn’t… I mean… you could pick somepony who has, well, even a one-percent viability when it comes to romantic relationships. I think I’ve displayed my capacity for destroying any potential attachment I could form…
I…
Mmff…
…
You make a valid argument. We’ll… see what happens.
Perhaps this time I won’t just be, well, ‘me’. On my own. Forever.
Ha…
Author's Note
Originally written for the Quills & Sofas speedwrite 'Raritwi' contest. Expanded about 500 or so words and edited. Takes place in one of the dark alternate timelines where Rarity doesn't date Spitfire. A depressing timeline, I know, but this is where we are today.
